After Joan Harry entered the department, Jesse Rowan walked alone to the edge of the corridor to smoke a cigarette.
He leaned against the corner of the wall, his clean and crisp suit wrapping his slender figure, and his brow furrowed slightly as he lit the cigarette.
His bangs, due to emotional and physical fluctuations, were messy, looking very bad and even a bit disheveled.
No one would come to the corner, so he stood alone, legs slightly crossed, with traces of distraction in his eyes.
The rain outside continued to fall, this kind of weather easily made one irritable, as if there was a stone weighing on the chest.
One cigarette, two cigarettes, three cigarettes...
He kept taking cigarettes out of the pack and kept lighting them.
By the fourth cigarette, the pack was empty.
Jesse Rowan furrowed his brow into a knot and, with a "bang," threw the empty pack into the trash can, disgruntled.
The box made a parabolic arc and landed steadily in the trash can.
